


Scenes from a Courtship

by jd517



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 30 Day OTP Challenge, Courtship, F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Mild Language, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-02
Updated: 2014-02-28
Packaged: 2018-01-10 21:27:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1164723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jd517/pseuds/jd517
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The story of John and Mary, from the day they met through the end of series 3.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A New Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> Sherlock and its characters, storylines and related ideas belong to the BBC and Hartswood Studios. I own nothing but my imagination. Thanks to ropspace54 and Snowsie2011 for their beta reads. Any errors that remain are my own.

**January 2013**

 

John fingered his moustache nervously as he passed through the sliding doors into the surgery.  A new tic, acquired along with the new mac, the new shirt, the new job.  And the new moustache. All part of the “New and Improved” John Watson.  One who would not sit in his sad and empty rooms, wallowing in his grief.  His year was up – even a widow wasn’t expected to mourn longer than that.  Time to move on.  Forward.

 

He shook his head and swiped his hand briefly across his upper lip.  Scratchy.  Not fully grown in but well on its way.  Right.  You’ve got this, Watson.  Not the hardest thing you ever did.

 

_You invaded Afghanistan._

 

His breath caught in surprise.  Damn. It was like Sherlock was right there, beside him.  Reading his mind and taking the piss.  It felt like a punch in the gut.  Still.

 

He straightened his back, pulling himself up to his full height.  Lifted his head, taking refuge in the military posture drummed into him so long ago.  Captain Watson, reporting for duty, Sir.

  
Eyes front and center, he quickly took in the reception area, the waiting patients, the bog-standard chairs and magazines. He took a deep breath, registering the unpleasant but oh so familiar faux lemon smell of antiseptic spray.  Your common or garden NHS surgery, just like all the ones he’d manned before.  Though this time he wasn’t here for locum duty, he reminded himself.  This was the real deal.

 

It was then that he saw her -- just a glimpse of the busy woman behind the desk, but enough to stop him in his tracks. 

 

She looked like an angel, if you believed in that sort of thing.  Achingly beautiful, but something even more than that.  Every cliché of the blushing English rose – all apple-blossom complexion and bouncy blonde curls and cerulean eyes – but also a certain set to her shoulders that radiated both professionalism and personality, and a firmness of chin that implied fierce loyalty.  She gave him a once over that implied that she could read his mind and know his every secret in an instant.

 

And then she smiled.  And it was like he was immediately wrapped in a warm embrace. A smile that reached beyond her mouth to her eyes, her face, her whole self -- radiating grace and compassion and the fellowship of a kindred spirit.  And as he struggled to compose his own face into a smile in response, she winked.  Friendly, and the slightest bit saucy.  Daring and delightful.  And he felt the ice around his heart begin to thaw.

 

“John!  Good to see you, man.  Welcome!”

 

A jovial clap on the shoulder forced John to tear his eyes away from her.

 

“David.  Er.  Thanks.  Good to be here.”  He shook the offered hand mechanically, forcing himself to smile at Dr. Blessen who’d hired him nearly on the spot after an interview at the PCT offices less than a week ago.

 

“We’re thrilled to have you join us, really thrilled.  We were in a quite a bind when Percy retired at the same time as Helen took her maternity leave.  Finding someone ready to start on such short notice was really a miracle.”

 

John shifted on his feet uncomfortably; knowing the ache in his leg was psychosomatic didn’t make it hurt less.  And he wasn’t sure how to respond to David’s welcome.  Every coherent thought seemed to have flown out of his head at the sight of that beautiful receptionist, and he still hadn’t recovered completely.  He smiled weakly.

 

“Let’s get you sorted, then, shall we?  Your consulting room is along here, across from mine.  We’ll just drop in on Ian and Anna, and then our Mary will get you started on your list.”

 

John nodded and followed. “After you then, David.”  His new colleague’s arm on his shoulder prevented him from looking back at the reception desk to see what had happened to the blonde.

 

X X X X X

 

He sighed and closed the door as David left.  It had been a whirlwind tour, a blur really, and he hoped he could at least remember where the critical places, like the loo and the supplies cupboard, were located.  He was fairly certain he’d never find the phlebotomist again without a trail of breadcrumbs.  His heart clenched and he swallowed hard at the memory – the package of breadcrumbs delivered to Mrs. Hudson THAT day.  The day they’d searched for and somehow improbably found those poor children, poisoned by sweets and terrorized by Moriarty.

 

He shook his head as if to shake the memory out.  Slowly he removed his coat and found a hanger for it on a peg behind his door.  He smoothed his hand over the navy gabardine sleeve.  It had been something of a splurge, that mac.  A present to himself in honor of the new job.

 

_Never underestimate the advantage of a good coat and a short friend . . ._

He chuckled wryly at the voice in his head.  Well one out of two wasn’t bad.

 

He took a seat at the desk, glancing at the computer, the pencils, the lab request forms and the box of nitrile gloves.  Right.  Time to start.

 

He was just picking up the receiver on the telephone when he heard a firm knock on the door.

 

“Yes?  Come  . . . come through.”

 

The door opened and SHE came in, bumping the door with her hip to hold it open, a shapely hip, he noticed, clad in slim, navy trousers.  She turned as she entered, revealing that she carried a steaming mug.

 

“Tea, Dr. Watson?” she asked brightly, with another broad smile, her lips a perfect match to her cherry-red cardigan.  “I’m afraid we’re out of sugar at the mo, but it’s hot.”  She crossed the room and set the mug beside him on the desk.

 

He looked up to thank her and was transfixed, utterly transfixed, at the sight of her.  Christ.  A man could drown in those eyes and count himself a lucky bastard. 

 

She looked at him, expectantly, a warm smile on her lips and one eyebrow cocked, questioning him, looking down at him seated at his desk.

 

Shit.  Where were his manners?  He scrambled to his feet.

 

“I . . er . .yeah.  Um.”  He raised the mug and took a sip of the tea, mainly to cover up his inability to speak.  Temporary he hoped.  “Yeah.  I don’t take sugar, thanks.”  Damn.  He sounded like a fool.

 

“I’m Mary, Mary Morstan.  Practice Manager.” She perched on the edge of his desk, looking him up and down, visually taking his measure.

 

“Oh, right.  I’m Dr. Watson.  I mean John.  John.”  His voice trailed off. 

 

Her eyes crinkled as she smothered a giggle.

 

John shook his head.  “Right. You knew that.  Of course you did.”  He huffed a small breath that was almost but not quite a laugh.

 

She pursed her lips and grinned.  “Name on the door gave it away.  As did the NHS paperwork.  And Dave’s various emails --  ‘New physician starting Monday.  Name’s John Watson.’  That sort of thing.”

 

“Right.  So where do I start, Miss Morstan?”

 

“How about with calling me Mary?  Nearly everybody does.”

 

“Mary it is then.”  He managed a small smile at this, and hoped her little grin meant she was pleased with it.

 

“Really pretty simple procedure here, you’ll find.  I’ll announce the patients, give you a chance to pull up their notes on your computer, let you know what brings them in today, that sort of thing.  I’ll take it easy on you to start – leave the heavy lifting to Dave and Ian today ‘til you get your bearings.  Sound good?”

 

He cleared his throat.  “Yeah. Fine.  Right.  Ta.”  He nodded his head.

 

“I’ll be off, then. I’m extension 22 – just call if you need me for anything.”

 

If only you knew.  I’ll need you for everything, John mused to himself, a blush creeping across his face.

 

She stood in the doorway, waiting, and he knew he was supposed to say something. 

 

He followed her to the door.  “Mary.  It’s . . it’s been nice meeting you.  Thanks.”  He took her hand in his, intending a warm but professional handshake.  The only even vaguely proper way to touch a colleague, especially one he’d only just met.

 

It was then that he felt it. 

 

His world had tipped off its axis that gut-wrenching instant at Bart’s when he’d realized what Sherlock was doing.  Everything had come to a screeching halt and remained there, in stasis, for twelve long months. 

 

But now, right at this moment, holding a small, cool hand in his, he felt the slightest nudge towards normality.  Perhaps it wasn’t spinning properly, not yet.  It was, however, a shove in the right direction.  And it was all down to her.

 

He held the shake a beat too long, and then added his left hand, effectively trapping her hand between both of his.  It was electric, magnetic.  Surely science, if not Sherlock, would be able to explain why he couldn’t bear to release her hand.

 

She saved him the need by withdrawing her hand on her own, winking again.  “I’d best go back to my desk.  Wouldn’t want the patients to mutiny.”

 

“Right, of course.”

 

“I’ll see you shortly then.  With your first patient?”  She added, to clarify, apparently sensing his confusion at her words.

 

He could only nod.

 

This was turning out to be more of a new beginning than he’d expected.


	2. Only the Lonely

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and its characters, storylines and related ideas belong to the BBC and Hartswood Studios. I own nothing but my imagination. Thanks to ropspace54 and Snowsie2011 for their beta reads. Any errors that remain are my own.

“Thanks ever so much, Dr. Watson.  You must think I am such a goose . . .”

 

“You did the right thing coming in, Mrs. Simpson.  Now if you’ll just . . .”

 

“It’s all my fault.  I really can’t believe it.  I surely didn’t mean . . .”

 

“I know you didn’t.  These things happen.  I’m sure you’ll remember next time.”

 

Flashing her his best facsimile of a “caring medical professional” smile, John took the octogenarian’s spindly arm and solicitously but firmly ushered her out of his consulting room, into the corridor.  Spotting Mary at her desk, he gave a little wave, hoping to get her attention.   

 

“Now Mrs. Simpson, I’ll ask Miss Morstan to go over with you the alcohol-free cough preparations that you can take with your other medications.  That way you can avoid the dizzy spells.   And if you have any questions about it, you can ring up the surgery any day you like.”

 

“Thank you, thank you, Doctor.  Such a nice young man.  So pleased to meet you and to know you’re looking after me.”

 

John was thinking ahead to his busy list of patients while simultaneously attempting to mentally telegraph Mary to come to his rescue, so he wasn’t paying as close attention to the old dear as he might have.  Which is how he found himself taken completely off-guard when his patient engulfed him in a rib-crushing bear hug. 

 

He wouldn’t have thought the bird-like Mrs. Simpson had it in her, not a fierce hug like that.  After a moment’s hesitation, he put his own arms awkwardly around her shoulders and patted her briefly on her back.

 

Over Mrs. Simpson’s bony shoulder, he saw Mary approach, a bemused smile playing on her pink lips.  She raised a questioning eyebrow.. 

 

Embarrassed, John cleared his throat, and looked away from Mary’s gaze.  He gently pushed Mrs. Simpson’s shoulder to turn her around.  “You just pop along with Mary and she’ll get you sorted out.”

 

“Off we go, then, Mrs. Simpson, shall we?  Did you leave your coat in reception?”  Mary chivvied her along with a practiced air, and John spared just a moment to watch their retreat before returning to his consulting room.

 

X X X X X

 

“That’s the last one for today, Dr. Watson.”

 

“Thanks, Mary.  And you should call me John.”

 

“John, then.”  She nodded.  “Nice work with Mrs. Simpson, by the way.  Poor dear.  She does this every few months – used to drive Percy round the twist.”

 

“Really?  How . . . well we need to do some education then, maybe change her meds . . .”

 

“John.  It’s not about the meds.  She’s lonely.  Cripplingly lonely.  Widowed, only son killed in a road traffic accident twenty years ago, even her budgie died.  She lives all alone in that quiet little flat.  And sometimes, she just needs to know someone cares.”

 

“So she concocts a dangerous drug interaction?  Mixes an alcohol-based cough remedy and ACE inhibitors so her blood pressure drops?”

 

“This time.  Last time she super-glued two of her fingers together.”  Mary sighed.    “It’s just rotten that a sweet lady like her thinks this is her only social outlet.  Such a pity.”

 

John cleared his throat.  He knew loneliness better than most, he figured, but he wasn’t sure how to say that without sounding pathetic in front of Mary.  “Yeah.  No one should have to be so alone they seek me out,” he said wryly.

 

“Oh, God, I’m sorry, John.  That wasn’t what I meant.”

 

“I know.”  He gave her a little smile.  “But I also know something about being alone.”

 

Mary’s face looked grave.   “David asked us not to say anything.  But I do know . . . about you, I mean.  About your friend’s death.”

 

John looked down at the papers on his desk.  It was something of a relief that he wasn’t going to have to explain that, yes indeed; he was THAT John Watson to everyone at the surgery.  And, to be honest, he had found it odd that this very defining part of him had not been mentioned by anyone on staff since he started.  Now he knew why.  Well at least any conversations about Sherlock Holmes were going to be on his terms, however much the thought of it clenched at his heart.

 

“And John?” she continued slowly, in a soft voice.  “I know something about being lonely too.  Perils of being an orphan I guess.  But if you ever need someone to . . .” She paused.  “Well if you want to talk, I just want you to know you can talk to me.”

 

He looked up into her face, seeing the warmth there, the concern.  And maybe something else? “Um.  Yeah.  Thanks.  Thank you, Mary.”

 

Abruptly she went to the door.  “Not that you’ll need it, as far as I can tell,” she said, brightly.

 

“How do you mean?”

 

She chuckled softly.  “Well Mrs. Simpson is clearly smitten with you.  I’ve never seen her hug any of the other doctors.  I don’t think you’ll ever be lonely again.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day two prompt -- cuddling (I interpreted this broadly . . .)


	3. Friday Flicks

 

**Chapter 3 – The Friday Flicks**

 

“Which is less likely to put everyone off their lunch d’ya think – skin disorders or mental illness?”

 

John stopped leafing through his patient notes to look at Mary who seemed to be studying some kind of list on her computer.  “What?”

 

“Tomorrow is the fourth Friday?”

 

“I’m sorry.  Is that supposed to mean something?”

 

“Oh, that’s right.  This is your first time.”  She smiled.  “Fourth Fridays are the Friday Flicks.  David’s attempt to increase participation in continuing professional ed classes.  So I find an online course we can stream or one that is on video and he orders takeaway lunch in the hopes of enticing the medical staff to attend.”

 

“I see.  So you’re choosing – what were the choices?”

 

“Not much available that’s new.  There is one on psoriasis and another on post-natal depression.”

 

John made a moue of disgust.  “Not very uplifting, those.”

 

“Yes, and not much inspiration for the takeaway.  Not that it is ever very easy.  We did P-A-D and pad thai one time.  Chicken pox and chicken tikka  . . .”

 

He groaned and shook his head. “You did not.  You couldn’t . . .”

 

“We did too.  And ketoacidosis and kebabs.”

 

John guffawed.  “I’ll bet you had a big turnout for that one.”

 

Mary smiled broadly.  “Not as many as for fainting and falafel, but that’s because everyone loves the food from that shop on the corner.”

 

“Well come on then, what are you proposing for, what was it, depression and acne?”

 

“Psoriasis or post-natal depression.”

 

“Donuts and depression?”

 

“Dr. Watson!  Are you really proposing donuts for lunch?  Not much for nutrition, are you?”

 

“What, wait, no.  Sorry.  Just trying to play your game.”  John’s face grew animated.

 

“I was thinking psoriasis and sushi – the words sound alike even if they don’t technically start with the same letter.”

 

“Not bad.  Not terribly appetizing but not bad.  I was sort of hoping for Chinese, though.  I know a really good place.  Can we find something that goes with that?”

 

“Mmm. Chinese does sound good; haven’t had a good prawn toast in ages.”

 

“Dim sum.  Will David go for Post-natal depression and dim sum?” John asked.

 

“I think I might be able to convince him – don’t underestimate my powers of persuasion,” Mary replied cheekily, eyes bright.

 

John gazed at her with something like fondness.  “No, no danger I’d do that.”

 

He was rewarded with a broad smile.

 

X X X X X

 

“God, Mary, well done!  This is excellent,” exclaimed Ian around a mouthful of pork bun. 

 

“Never heard of this place before. Is it around here?” asked Anna, looking at the label on one of the containers.”

 

“No, well, I tried somewhere new.”  Mary looked down at her plate and poked at her food fiercely with a chopstick.  “John recommended it.” 

 

“Good man, John.  I knew you would fit right in here,” added David, clapping John on the back.

 

“Yeah.  Well.  A friend . . . my friend . . . once showed me the secret to finding a good Chinese restaurant.”  John cleared his throat, remembering that night so long ago, pumped on adrenalin after shooting the cabbie and feeling like his life would never be the same again.  The first night he and Sherlock had stopped for Chinese on the way back to Baker Street.

 

“Oh?  Aren’t you going to tell us how?” asked Gemma, the senior midwife.

 

“Wouldn’t be a secret, then, would it?” replied John easily.

 

Mary looked over and caught his eye.  He gave her a small smile in return.

 

When the plates were filled and the staff seated around the conference table, Mary started the film.  The obstetrical consultant on the screen went through the steps of a newly designed protocol for assessing all newly-delivered mums for signs of post-natal depression.  After a few minutes, John used the cover of darkness to sneak a look at Mary.  He spotted her leaning against the back wall, one ankle crossed over the other, one hand on her hip.  The glow from the screen illuminated her profile.  He admired her face for a beat too long, before realizing he was staring at her in full view of the entire staff, and then made a show of taking a note or two on the tablet in his lap.

 

The onscreen speaker switched to a psycho-pharmacologist discussing the types of anti-depressants that could be used in post-partum cases, depending on whether or not the patient was nursing.  John was doing his level best to concentrate when he felt, rather than saw, Mary slide into the empty chair beside him.

 

The film had no chance of holding his attention now, woe to the depressed mums of Fitzrovia.   He surreptitiously watched Mary from behind half-closed eyes, the way her tongue touched her lip briefly between bites, the lovely porcelain column of her throat, rising from the open collar of her emerald blouse, the sweep of her lashes against her cheek with each blink of her deep blue eyes.  He caught a brief scent of her perfume over the savory smells of the food on their plates.  All he could think was that he wanted more.

 

John felt a dig into his ribs and his eyes flew open, in time to catch Mary elbowing him and pointing at her plate, nudging a dumpling towards him with her chopstick.  He took the offering solemnly, placing it carefully in his mouth and savoring the taste.  Just as he attempted to swallow, she winked at him.  His mouth went dry and he began to choke.

 

Immediately she was patting him on the back, and he was overcome with sensation.  It was not making it easier to breathe.  He gratefully accepted first a serviette to dispose of the offending morsel of food from his mouth, and then a bottle of water, both thrust at him by others around the table as Mary continued to pound vigorously on his back.  As he got the sputtering under control and caught his breath, he became hyper-aware of his connection to her, an electric spark arcing between them as her hand continued to make contact with his back.

 

“Watson, mate, you all right?” asked Ian from across the table.

 

“Fi . . .fine,” he said.  “Give me a minute, I’ll be fine.”

 

He felt Mary’s hand still on his back, becoming almost a caress.  And he realized it was true.  He was going to be fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Notes:  
> Day three prompt: Watching a movie  
> PAD stands for “peripheral arterial disease”  
> Fitzrovia is a London neighborhood where I am imagining John’s surgery is located.


	4. Friendly

 

**Chapter 4 – Friendly**

March 2013

 

John was writing up his patient notes when Ian came barging in. “John, mate, I need your help.” He sounded desperate.

 

“Yeah, right.  What do you need? A defibrillator?” John scrambled to his feet, battlefield training kicking in immediately.

 

“Ah – ha.  No.  If only it were that easy.  Though we might need that tomorrow . . .” Ian’s voice trailed off.

 

“How do you mean?  What’s going on? Where’s the patient?”

 

“No patient.  No, it’s Anna,” moaned Ian.

 

“Anna? Well, come on then, let’s get to her. What’s happened?” John asked breathlessly.

 

“It’s her bloody birthday, that’s what. And I just realized this at,” Ian stopped to look at his wrist watch, “eleven bloody o’clock! I am toast.  Absolutely toast.  You have to help me.”

 

John exhaled the breath he had been holding, telling his adrenalin- fueled heart rate to stand down as it became clear that this was not THAT sort of emergency.

 

“Not a problem, Ian.  I can cover your list, give you a chance to nip out and   pick up something nice for her.  Just tell Mary.”

 

“Thanks but that isn’t going to cut it. 

 

“What did you have in mind, then?”  John sat back down in his chair.

 

“The only possible way to avoid total marital annihilation over this kind of mistake is if it appears that I _intended_ for her to think I’d forgotten, but I really hadn’t, like if I had planned a surprise party.”  Ian sat on the exam couch and put his head in his hands.  “But how on earth am I going to pull that off in one afternoon?”

 

John pondered the dilemma.  “How posh a do would she be expecting?  What if we rounded up the staff and met up at a pub, or someplace?”

 

Ian looked up, a glimmer of hope in his eyes. “Go on.  What are you thinking?”

 

“Well, I just thought if some of us went ahead to, I dunno, the Lamb or the King and Queen or wherever, and you brought Anna along, like you were taking her out for a bite.  If we were all there waiting, then it would appear that you had arranged a surprise party. We could brief everyone ahead of time, not let on that you’d only asked them today.”

 

“Do you think anyone would be able to come?  I mean at the last minute?”

 

“Well let’s find out.  It’s Tuesday. It won’t be much of a party if it’s just me, but if Gemma, Valerie, um, Mary, maybe some of the others could make it, it should work.  Especially if you pick up a gift, organize a cake, some flowers, make a fuss.”

 

Ian nodded.  “It might do. It would save my life if it did.”

 

“Otherwise I know, er, knew . . . I guess I know a bloke who runs an Italian place,” John continued.  “I’m sure he’d reserve a table for you if I called.  He   . . . he’ll make it nice, romantic, candle on the table and such.” 

 

John swallowed hard, thinking of Angelo, of the last time he’d seen Angelo, at Sherlock’s funeral.  Still, he figured the man would do him a solid, in Sherlock’s memory if not for himself. He smiled faintly, thinking of all the plates of Angelo’s pasta he’d never finished, chasing after the madman, Sherlock Holmes.  Maybe it was time to go back.  Maybe he could bring someone along who’d appreciate the atmosphere more than Sherlock had.

 

“Thanks, John,” crowed Ian.  “You’re a real mate.  You’ve saved me today. I won’t forget this.”

 

“Don’t thank me yet.  Wait and see if we can pull this off.”

 

X X X X X

 

At seven John was well into his second pint, sitting at a long table in the back of the Lamb with nine of his colleagues, laughing at how Anna’s simmering fury had turned rapidly to embarrassment, and then finally to joy as she’d realized the gathering was for her.  Ian was generous in ordering food and drink, pleased to be in Anna’s good graces, and everyone was having a brilliant time.

 

John relaxed into his chair and let the babble of voices wash over him, hearing but not listening to comments about Eastenders, Man U’s chances in the match against Chelsea, and the latest kerfuffle in Parliament. He was beginning to feel a part of the group it seemed.  He genuinely liked his colleagues, was learning their stories, their foibles, their personalities.  Not quite like the army, perhaps, but miles better than the unrelenting loneliness of the previous year.

 

He took a sip of his lager and as he raised his glass, he caught a glimpse out of the corner of his eye of Mary, seated between Ian and Dave, across the table and down a few chairs from him.  She seemed to sparkle, laughing and shaking her head, gesturing enthusiastically with her wineglass.  John smiled as he set his pint on the table, hoping he would get the chance to have the warmth of her attention turned to him.  Maybe after another pint or two, he’d have the guts to ask to escort her home.

As he mulled that idea over in his mind, he felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to find the birthday girl herself.

 

“Thanks, for the flowers, John.  It was so sweet of you! I love tulips.”

 

“You’re welcome, Anna.  Happy Birthday!”

 

“Thanks. This is all such a surprise.  Fifteen years with Ian and sometimes there is still something unexpected.” Her eyes glinted with tears, tears of happiness he hoped. 

 

“Fifteen years, wow.  I didn’t realize you’d been together that long.”

 

“Yeah, since house officer days.  Figured if we could get through that, we could survive anything.”

 

He chuckled.  “So you were a couple when you came to the surgery?  Nobody gave you any grief about that, then?  No anti-fraternization policy or whatever?”

 

Anna put her drink down.  “No. But its not like David could have objected, not really, what with he and Mary, you know . . .”

 

John’s heart sunk.  It was like a physical blow.  “Really? I didn’t know.” He hadn’t automatically assumed Mary was necessarily single, not as perfect as she was, but how had he missed Dave? Some detective he was. Sherlock would have despaired of him.

 

Gemma greeted Anna, who patted John on the shoulder as she wove her way around the table to the next well-wisher.   While John might have asked more questions, if he could have thought of them, it was probably better not to put his heart on his sleeve.

 

Suddenly he didn’t feel very connected to the group.  He hadn’t realized until just this moment how close he felt to Mary, how welcome she’d made him feel, how much he looked forward to their conversations, her smiles, the occasional coy wink.  He’d begun to feel hopeful around her, to ease away from the past towards the possibility of a future.  But now, now it felt like the floor had fallen out from under him.

 

He wasn’t feeling very festive any longer.  He took another swig of his beer and put the glass back on the table.  Pushing his chair back, he shrugged into his coat and quietly moved towards the door.

 

“John, mate, you’re not leaving are you?  Not so soon?”

 

“Er, yeah, Ian.  Thanks for all this. But I need to be going, early start tomorrow and all.”

 

Ian rose and pumped John’s hand vigorously.  “Alright then, see you tomorrow.”  He clapped his other hand on John’s shoulder and leaned in close to mutter, “you saved my life, mate.  I owe you one, big time.”

 

John nodded and smiled weakly, before turning to take his leave. As he did, he saw Mary tilt her head towards him, giving him a quizzical look.  He raised his hand in a little wave, and then made his way to the door, alone and dejected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note:
> 
> For the prompt: Hanging out with friends (taking them a little bit out of order for the sake of the narrative).

**Author's Note:**

> Author’s Notes:
> 
> For the day one prompt – holding hands.
> 
> In my head canon, surgery chief Dr. David Blessen is the hapless usher whom Sherlock aggressively questions about his previous relationship with Mary in The Sign of Three and fellow doctors Anna and Ian are the parents of the bloodthirsty page-boy.


End file.
